You Won't Love Me When You're Finished
by JaydaMorgana
Summary: John decides to read the A.G.R.A. flash drive, and is shocked by what he discovers. Eventual Johnlock.
1. The Truth

_**A/N: If you're a fan of Mary, read no further! Sorry.**_

* * *

><p>John holds the flash drive between trembling fingers, knowing that he has to get this over with eventually. He can't just not look at its contents. It would <em>kill<em> him, not knowing anything about his wife. Mary Morstan, or whatever she chooses to call herself. A liar in every sense of the word.

He inserts the flash drive into his laptop, feeling tears come to his eyes. _You won't love me when you're finished_, she'd said. Hell, he doesn't love her anymore, anyway, so why is this so hard to do?

_Because without her, you have no one,_ John thinks to himself, and the tears begin to fall. _Well, you have Sherlock, but … he's _Sherlock_. He doesn't care about you. Does he?_

John's thoughts are diverted by the series of files loading on the screen. Documents and pictures. Oh, God. They all look official and, well, bad.

"What are you looking at?"

John whips his head around. Sherlock's standing in the threshold to the sitting-room, brows furrowed, looking as polished as ever. The opposite, really, of how John feels.

"I - erm, it's nothing," John fumbles.

Sherlock glances over John's shoulder. "Ah, the A.G.R.A. file? I knew you wouldn't be able to resist. Fascinating stuff, isn't it?"

"I haven't bloody looked at it yet," John snaps, turning back to the computer. And … oh Lord. The picture that's just loaded?

Shit, shit, a thousand times shit.

John wonders if he's having a panic attack. Hell, he probably is. Because nothing - absolutely nothing - had prepared him for this.

He can't breathe. _He can't breathe HECAN'TBREATHEHECAN'TBREATHE-_

"John? _John!_" Sherlock yells, leaping across the room and helping John sit. His large hands hold John's shoulders steady. "John, you need to calm down. I'm serious."

Slowly but surely, John gets ahold of his breathing. A sheen of sweat has appeared on his forehead, and his eyes are crazed.

"Sherlock … Jesus …" John can't even begin to describe the agony he's going through. "She was … she was …"

"I know, John. I read the documents some time ago."

"And you didn't bloody tell me!?"

"I thought it best to let you discover this for yourself, but evidently I was wrong-"

"Of course you were wrong, you utter arse!" John knows it's wrong to be yelling at Sherlock - he hasn't done anything, after all - but Mary's not available. He's got to take his anger out on someone. "I just can't believe …"

Sherlock sighs. "I can't coddle you through everything, you know."

John's eyes bore into the documents, the pictures. They're snapshots of Mary, dressed in black, sniper rifle in hand. At the pool, where Moriarty strapped a bomb to his chest. Mary. His goddamned wife, part of that horrendous affair, the incident that had left John shaken for weeks.

God, he's been so blind. He had so obtusely wanted to forgive her for shooting his best friend, but _this?_ This couldn't be forgiven.

"She goes on to say that you were her mission, but after Moriarty's death she fell in love with you," Sherlock says with a snort. "It's a weak excuse, but I'll warrant she was being truthful about that. It's hard to tell."

"Well, I can't leave her now, can I?" John says furiously. "She'll kill us both. She'll blackmail me into staying. I don't know."

"John, if she really does love you, she won't. If she doesn't, then you're merely a mission of hers. With Moriarty gone, you serve no purpose … unless she's working for someone else. I'd say the odds are fairly in your favor."

"If you die, Sherlock, it's not gonna be on my watch."

For a moment Sherlock is startled. He hadn't expected such loyalty, even from John Watson.

"I-John, I-"

"I'm dead serious. I'll stay with her if it means keeping our sorry arses alive. And I'll tell her that. I'll tell her that's the only reason I'm sticking around."

"You're Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," Sherlock says. "You can't let her have any kind of power over you. I won't allow it."

"She's an _assassin_," John moans. "There's no getting out of this."

"You can at the very least tell her your terms. I have faith in you, John. I know it's hard … all this."

Sherlock makes to leave the room, but John calls him back.

"How are you remaining so calm about this? I'm a total mess."

Sherlock grimaces. "Believe me, when I first found out, I was a mess, too. I very well could've lost my blogger that night at the pool. You're lucky you weren't witness to my initial reaction, John." He pauses, considering. "I think she loves you, John, but it's a weak excuse. I wouldn't accept it."

And with that, he leaves the room. John sits in silence, unsure of where to go from here.

* * *

><p>John explains to Mary his terms: the only reason he'll stick around is to protect Sherlock. He will do nothing for her unless unreasonably forced.<p>

"Bloody hell," Mary says, cold as ice. "You'll do anything for that man, won't you?"

"Believe me, this is for my sake, too," John growls.

"I'm not as merciless a person as you suspect, John," Mary continues. "I did fall in love with you." Tears fill her eyes, and her cold facade breaks. "You were my first love, John. I'll never be over you. Never."

"You can't guilt me," John snaps.

"I'm not trying to. I just, well … I'll go away. You'll never see me again. I do hope you'll be happy, John, even if it's with _him_."

"What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?" John demands, but Mary exits the room before he can get an answer.

John intuitively knows that Mary was telling the truth. But what she meant by her last sentence, he has no idea.


	2. The Tension

John knows he's been completely daft by the time he returns to the flat. Not because he's left Mary - no, he'd never regret that - but because, in order to numb his pain, he's been out getting roaring drunk.

"Sh'lock? Sh'lock?" John calls up the steps, looking around confusedly. He hasn't been this drunk since the stag night - and anyone could tell you that he's the greatest lightweight that's ever lived.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock asks, appearing at the top of the stairs. He doesn't look too surprised.

John staggers up the steps, hand on the wall for support. "I've done something bloody awful," he grumbles.

"What, split with Mary? You're happy about that, aren't you?"

"No, I've gotten hooked on the booze, just like my sister."

Sherlock's gaze turns sympathetic. "John, you need to lie down, wait this out-"

John gazes up at his friend - his _best_ friend, who cares more about him than Mary ever did. He's beautiful, really. Wait,_ beautiful? _John isn't sure he's thinking straight. But yes, he is. Why hasn't he been more aware of this before? Perhaps he's been so adamantly _not gay_ these past few years that he hadn't been able to truly appreciate his flatmate. Those glossy curls, those plump lips, that slender physique …

"John?" Sherlock asks, staring at him quizzically. "Do you need help? Getting to bed, I mean. Or something." He looks uncomfortable, and John can't help but find it a bit cute.

"No, no … I'll just sleep on the sofa," he murmurs, finally making it up the stairs. He takes another look at Sherlock. God, it doesn't make any sense. He's nothing like Mary - he's a good person at heart - and besides, he's physically different in every sense of the word. Where is this newfound attraction coming from?

Is he … could he be wanting a rebound fling, to get over his wife? With _Sherlock?_ Maybe. He really doesn't know. All that matters is that he's drunk and he wants to kiss someone, badly. His flatmate is his last resort, right?

"You're beautiful, y'know," John mumbles, stepping forward and placing his hands on Sherlock's tapered waist.

"John, you're being ridiculous," the detective snaps. "You'll think better in the morning."

John shakes his head adamantly. "I want this."

"What, to get over _her?_"

"I … I don't know." John presses his head to Sherlock's chest. The detective stiffens, uncomfortable with this sort of intimacy. "Why not? What's the matter with it?" He pauses, trying to sort through his drunken thoughts. "You're the best man I know. And … before, at the stag night, I said I wouldn't mind. I meant it, really."

"Please." Sherlock's scowl is deep. "You don't feel this way, John. You're lonely, you're drunk, and you really need to get your hands off me."

"Okay, okay," John says, pulling his arms away quickly. He's about to pass Sherlock by and get off to bed when another impulse strikes him: he steps back and plants a sloppy kiss on Sherlock's mouth.

"John, for God's sake!" Sherlock shouts, his warm breath hot on John's face. "Go to bed!"

John, shoulders slumped, slinks off to bed, wondering what the hell he's done. Sherlock wonders the same, but to a greater extent.

* * *

><p>John sleeps as long as he can, until the hangover's gone. He usually doesn't have such vivid memories of the night before, but this time, he does. He'd made a bloody fool of himself, jumping into Sherlock's arms, kissing him-<p>

Wait, _what?_

_Kissing him!?_

John's eyes bug out of his head. He throws on clothes as fast as he can, racing down the hall to find … Sherlock, sitting in his leather chair, reading the newspaper as though nothing has happened.

"Good morning," Sherlock says, calm as ever.

"I … erm …"

"Ye-es?"

John scratches his head. Why is Sherlock acting like this? Did anything truly happen last night? But yes, it must have. John's not going crazy. Is he?

"Tea?" Sherlock asks, standing up and swooshing into the kitchen. He pours a cup and hands it over. John accepts it gratefully.

"So, last night …" John begins, hoping Sherlock will be responsive - give him some hint as to something, _anything_ …

"Mm." Sherlock takes a sip from his cup, completely nonchalant.

"I was, uh, completely arseholed, yeah?"

"That's one way of putting it," Sherlock says, looking ill at ease. _Finally,_ John thinks, _some emotion out of him!_

John decides to be bold. He's embarrassed - God, he's never felt this humiliated in all his life - but he has to know that Sherlock isn't just ignoring that they, they-

"I might have gotten a bit bold …"

"John, you kissed me," Sherlock says, his voice flat. John's startled.

"Yeah, I do remember that."

"What, did I look like your wife, or something?" Sherlock asks snarkily. "You must've been _really_ drunk, then."

"No … I, well … I …"

"John, can I be completely honest?"

"Um, sure?"

"I recognize that I'm probably just filling in till you're over Mary, but it doesn't matter. I'm your friend, and I … I'm willing to help you. So, if you were to ever, er-"

John can't believe what he's hearing. "Like, be together?"

"Eloquent as always, John."

John can't believe how excited he is. He'd thought he'd just been dizzy from the night before, but no. He still felt something for Sherlock - physically, at least. And he did appreciate the detective's loyalty, under that cold mask. This little rebound might not be all that bad.

"Um, yeah. I'd be okay with that," John says, a smile brimming at the corners of his mouth. "God, this is mental. I can't believe this."

"We'll keep it casual," Sherlock says, looking guarded. "We don't want you to get too involved. It's just a bit of fun, isn't it? Till you're over Mary?"

"Yes, yes. Of course." John says, his smile wide. "Just a bit of fun."

He wraps his arms around Sherlock, and the kiss is less sloppy this time. It's firm, it's warm, it's good, but Sherlock's obviously inexperienced. It's cute, in a way. John kisses him again, and again, and again, sliding his hands all over Sherlock's chest.

"God, this is mental," he repeats, completely stunned.

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock grouches. "Just kiss me."

John, despite his shock, complies.

* * *

><p>Sherlock can't believe what's happening. He's actually kissing John Watson - his best friend, his flatmate … his love. Yes, <em>his love<em>. Practically since they met.

But he's just a rebound, isn't he? For Mary Morstan. John is still grieving. John doesn't love him. He never has, and he never will.

_This is as good as it's going to get, so you'd better enjoy it,_ Sherlock chastises himself. _Resign yourself to the fact that this is all it's ever going to be. It's too much to suppose that he'll ever fall in love with you._

Sherlock kissed John again, relishing that firm, experienced mouth, those strong shoulders, that able physique …

_He doesn't love you,_ the mantra in Sherlock's head insists. _He doesn't love you, he doesn't love you, he doesn't love you. And he never will._


	3. The Hot Mess

"Wait, you're seriously dating him?" Sally Donovan's eyebrows shoot to her hairline. "Holy shit. I should've seen it coming, but … so soon, after splitting with that wife of yours? Wow. Okay. I don't even want to dig deeper into this."

Sherlock shrugs. For once, he doesn't have a good comeback. She's only stating the facts, after all: he and John have gone public, and they've been receiving mixed responses. On one hand, it was expected, but so soon after John's split from his wife? Surely Sherlock is just some sort of casual fling on the side, to get over her? That's what everyone - even Sherlock - assumes, anyway. John isn't entirely sure what he's feeling himself.

Lestrade looks pleased, as though he were the matchmaker who brought them together, while Anderson and Donovan look disgusted. Donovan's annoyance is understandable - she's never liked either of the duo - but Anderson? Well, rumors are flying that Anderson's obsession with Sherlock is a bit more than that, hence the attitude. But that's a story for another day.

Sherlock must admit that he enjoys the reactions. Regardless of John's feelings, it's nice, being able to feel John's small hand in his own. It's the touch he's craved for so long, and he doesn't care if everyone sees. In fact, he wants them to see. He wants to shout from the rooftops. He's loath to admit it, but he's understood love for awhile … only now does he understand gratification, if in a small sense.

"So, the murder, then?" Lestrade asks, drawing everyone out of their reveries and back to the present. "Any thoughts?"

"The housemaid," Sherlock says. "It's always the housemaid, isn't it? No, I suppose not. In books, anyway. Erm. Yes. Arrest her immediately. Chances are she's fleeing at we speak. So, um … yes."

Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson stare at him quizzically. Hell, even John's staring. Sherlock, despite having solved the case, seems incredibly unfocused and rambly.

"You okay?" John asks, squeezing Sherlock's hand.

"Can't concentrate," Sherlock mutters under his breath. "But the weird thing is, I don't _want_ to concentrate. I want to get back to the flat and, well … you know."

John chuckles. Sherlock's terrible with innuendos, but John understands what he's getting at.

"Okay, okay, we'll get going," he whispers.

"You two alright?" Lestrade asks, arching a brow.

"Yeah, fine. We've got to get going, though," John says, a bit flushed.

"Fine, okay," Anderson grouches. "Leave us to solve this, then."

"Isn't that your job?" Sherlock asks, a bit flushed as well. "Besides, I've solved the case!"

Sherlock and John practically cavort out of the room, giggling like schoolgirls. Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson watch them leave, not sure whether they're surprised.

* * *

><p>Sherlock's snickering under his breath when they reach 221B.<p>

"You nutter," John says, but he's snickering, too. "They're gonna know exactly what we're up to."

"Exactly?" Sherlock asks, eyes wide in faux-surprise.

"God, Sherlock." John runs his hands over Sherlock's chest, inhaling a deep breath. "You're gorgeous," he murmurs, planting a firm kiss on a soft mouth.

"Let's at least get into my room, first," Sherlock insists.

They fumble into the room, collapsing onto the bed. Clothes are soon peeled away, piece by piece. John's a bit startled by how fast they're going, but not as startled as Sherlock. Sherlock, after all, hasn't been this intimate in years - and certainly never with John.

"Is this … what we're going to do?" Sherlock asks incoherently, his vision blurred with delirium.

"Yes. Yes," John gasps, giving Sherlock a good, long once-over. He's thin, but his chest is strong, his slender arms capable. All the same, he looks impossibly small, especially for one who's often a presence to be reckoned with. He's powerful, but he's delicate, too. John likes this.

Once John's done a careful inspection of Sherlock's body, his eyes meet with - oh, God. A long, thick, glorious cock. John feels himself go hard just at the sight of it.

"Jesus, Sherlock," he moans.

"It's not all that big, compared to-"

"Shut up, Sherlock. Just … shut up." John's half-laughing as he speaks. He decides that boldness is the best option, and reaches out, taking Sherlock's member in hand.

"Ohhh …" Sherlock purrs, unused to such feelings. Sure, he's wanked before - he is a human male, after all - but _this? _This is something entirely different, entirely unexpected.

John smirks. "You like that, do you?" He strokes in strong, rhythmic motions. Sherlock leans back into the mattress, body arching as John leans over him, a devilish grin on his face.

"Ohhh, _yeess_. God." Sherlock's slender hips buck, his hands reaching out and holding John's, guiding him to the areas that bring the most pleasure. John works his way back to Sherlock's balls, stroking fervently, as the detective begins to shake.

"Oh my God - _Christ_, John!" he moans, as John shoves his burgeoning erection against him, continuing with strong, gentle strokes …

"Euugh - God, Jaawwn," Sherlock moans, his already-deep baritone thick with arousal. "Here-let me-I-"

He reaches out, despite blurred vision, and takes John's erection in hand. John lets out a gasp of excitement that sends Sherlock over the edge. John's pleasure, combined with his own, is too much for him. He comes, and it's the most wonderful, excruciating, glorious thing he's experienced in years, perhaps ever. He remembers, in his aroused state, that John still needs getting off, too, so he strokes his lover's generous cock more fervently. John lets out a strangled cry and comes over Sherlock's palm.

"Christ …_ Jesus fucking Christ!_" John wails, collapsing into Sherlock's chest in giddy excitement. "That was-that was fucking _incredible_."

Sherlock's flat on the mattress, just as giddy. He can't stop laughing. "That was-that was-" he can't get the words out. _That was everything I've ever wanted. I love you so much, John Watson._

But of course he can't say that. He can't say anything like that. This is just a casual fling, after all. John doesn't feel the same. They're just friends with benefits. Or something like that.


	4. The 'L' Word

About three weeks into his newfound relationship with Sherlock, John realizes that something's changed, and dramatically, at that. He's always loved Sherlock, in a way, but this is something entirely different. This is something beyond admiring his brain, his body, or anything of the kind.

This, truly, is love itself, in its purest form. He loves the way the light shines from the open window on Sherlock's sleeping body in the morning. He loves Sherlock's compositions, and the beauty he's able to evoke from his elegant Stradivarius. He loves watching him throw his head back in pleasure as he climaxes. Anything and everything about him is perfect, even his flaws. John doesn't understand where this newfound love is coming from, but he's all the happier for it.

On second thought, though, the love isn't so very newfound after all. It's always sort of been there, if a bit dormant. Take the stag night, for example. He'd been getting ready for his wedding, and yet, he still wouldn't have minded if Sherlock had pulled the moves on him then. Perhaps he hadn't been entirely _in love_ then, but that had been the beginning of an attraction.

One morning, while Sherlock is sipping coffee at the table after a night of, erm, many pleasures, John can't help but consciously think to himself: _I am in love with this man. God, I'm so crazy in love with him._ He watches Sherlock adoringly from across the table, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks. He wants to tell him how he feels, but somehow, he can't.

"You're beautiful," he says instead, turning fully red this time.

"John …" Sherlock says, almost bashfully. He takes a sip of his coffee to distract himself. It's getting harder to hide that he's completely, utterly in love with John Watson. He isn't sure if that's a good thing or not.

"Oh, c'mon, you must know it." John leans across the table and plants a kiss on Sherlock's nose. "Just look at you. I don't suppose your parents were supermodels, back in the day? To make someone as gorgeous as you?"

"My mother, probably," Sherlock says, snorting delicately. He gets up from the table and steps out of the dressing-gown he's wearing, to reveal absolutely nothing underneath. His mouth curves up in a sly smile.

"Ooh, you bastard," John mutters. He's up from the table in seconds and has Sherlock bent over the sofa. Sherlock laughs uncontrollably as John plants a series of kisses across his naked flesh.

John's trousers are off in moments, and he's thrusting against Sherlock's erection like there's no tomorrow. Sherlock pants against him, trying to keep his moans at a minimum - Mrs. Hudson mustn't hear anything, after all - but he's unable to hold back, for the most part. Well, okay, he's loud. Loud and uninhibited.

"Aaaaanhhhg … ungghhh … _God!_" Sherlock cries, as the thrusting grows faster, harder, more urgent.

"Sh'lock …" John groans, shoving his fingers through Sherlock's curls. The pumping grows faster and faster - Sherlock's practically whimpering with excitement -

"I love you - God, _I love you_!" John blurts out.

If this had been a movie, the screen would've entirely shattered with the realization. Nothing like that happens, of course, but Sherlock does react … and not favorably.

"Get the fuck off me," he snarls, the passion of before entirely lost. He shoves John roughly away and stands, feeling suddenly very vulnerable. "How could you say that? How _could_ you!?"

"Sherlock, I-"

"You don't. Fucking. Mean it." Sherlock spits, hating that he's completely nude in front of John like this. Hating that John makes him feel this way. Hating the lie he's just heard. "I'm a rebound for Mary. I'm nothing to you. And you have to go and bring _love_ into the equation! _How could you?_"

"Sherlock, I'm serious-"

Sherlock snatches his dressing-gown up from a chair and wraps it around himself like armor - God forbid John Watson ever see his naked body again, after this! His face is blotchy and he's wondering if he's going to cry - cry like a child.

"I have loved you, John, for years now! God, how it's killed me! And I let you use me, knowing you were trying to get over Mary. But there you go, saying stupid things, claiming you love me, too." Sherlock's voice quickly loses its hysteria and turns cold and aloof. "It's killed me, seeing you make mistake after mistake. Seeing you forgive Mary time and time again, seeing you with her. And then you completely use me, make false claims …" Tears spring to his eyes - God, why is he getting so emotional about this? He never cries. Never. "I want you to leave me."

"Sherlock, if you'd let me explain-"

"Leave me, John. _Now_."

John, completely taken aback, stumbles out of the room. He's never seen Sherlock like this before. He's genuinely terrified - terrified of this man, crying like a child, who claims to love him, too. It's too good to be true - and at the same time,it's the worst thing that could have happened. Because it means all _this_. This is not how things are supposed to go.

He nearly falls down the stairs several times, trying to remain steady. This. Is. Not. Happening. There's absolutely no way.

He knows very well that he won't be seeing Sherlock for a long time … perhaps ever again.

* * *

><p>Once John's gone, Sherlock collapses onto the sofa and sobs. Great, wracking sobs. He cries like a child - perhaps with even more abandon than that. He lets himself go on like this for five minutes exactly, then wipes at his eyes, taking slow, deep breaths. He is not weak. He is going to survive this, as he's survived everything painful before.<p>

John said he loved him, but John is a liar. No - perhaps he's just high on the idea of them together, and thinks that he's in love. Anyway, John isn't thinking straight; that much is certain.

The hardest thing of all is that for a moment, Sherlock had almost believed him. He'd seemed so honest, so true. But no. It wasn't possible. John is grieving for his lost wife. John doesn't love him. He never will. That only makes the fact that he'd claimed to a hundred times worse.

Sherlock curls up on the sofa and doesn't move for the rest of the day. Mrs. Hudson checks on him occasionally, concern etched deep in her brow. It's not enough, though. Sherlock wishes John would return, and that maybe, _maybe_, they can go back to the way things were before. The act of pretending that no one loved anyone, that everything was entirely objective and unemotional.

But of course that couldn't happen. Nothing would ever be the same, not after this.

* * *

><p>John knows he's fucked up, big-time. He should've given it time, shouldn't have told Sherlock so soon. Of <em>course<em> Sherlock's insecure - he's only just left Mary, after all! Well, okay, it's been a few weeks, but still. The wounds are fresh nonetheless.

He knows he's got to give Sherlock a little space, but more importantly, he knows he's got to prove his love for him. How he'll do that, he's not sure, but he needs to come up with an idea soon … before damage is permanently done.


	5. The Proof

The first thing John admits to himself upon leaving 221B is that he has absolutely no idea how to prove his love to Sherlock. He knows material items won't work, and he knows apologizing incessantly won't, either. So he does something completely awkward: he asks, over the phone, if they can be friends again.

There's a long, uncomfortable pause on the other end of the line. _Fuck, _John thinks, _now I've done it. I've made things even worse._

"I suppose we could try that," Sherlock says, a stiff edge to his voice.

"Good. Okay. Right."

John hangs up, his brow covered in sweat. God, how could things get any worse? He'd said what he'd felt, but of course Sherlock didn't believe him - not so soon after Mary. And now he wants to _be friends?_ Jesus. It sounds like some romantic comedy, or something. Minus the comedy.

He resigns himself to the fact that he'll never be able to convince Sherlock of his love - he's too set in his beliefs to think that John could ever love him, especially after marrying someone else. But John feels pathetic for not trying to make amends … at least, not in the best possible way. The problem is he's anxious, stressed, and can't think. He isn't brilliant enough to think of a way to make things right again.

* * *

><p><em>Holy shit,<em> John thinks, as he sits across the room from Sherlock at 221B. _I had sex with that man. He loves me. I love him. So why can't any of this possibly work?_

The hardest thing for John to understand is that the situation's not entirely black and white. Sherlock's refusal to believe is part of it, but John made the mistake of using the 'L' word too soon, even though he'd meant it. And now they're in this mess. God.

"Any new … cases?" John asks, trying and failing to sound casual.

"One," Sherlock says. "Apparent suicide, but now they're saying it's murder. A Caitlyn Connors - big in the news, apparently. I haven't looked into the details."

"Hm." John doesn't know what else to say. "Are you, uh, going to? Look into it, I mean." He clears his throat once. Twice. Perhaps a third time.

"Eventually, I suppose." Sherlock turns his attention to the newspaper on the side-table. John stares down at his feet, feeling like a moron.

"It's a bit cold in here, isn't it?" a voice says from the doorway. Sherlock and John look up to see none other than Mycroft Holmes twirling his umbrella, a small smirk on his face.

"It's the middle of summer-" John begins.

"I meant the atmosphere," Mycroft says, the smirk growing. "You two are usually engaging in, er, 'friendly banter', aren't you?"

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" Sherlock asks crisply.

"I'm here about the Connors case, as I happened to overhear you mentioning," Mycroft says. "As you know, the murder-suicide took place near Buckingham Palace, and we can't have a thing so close to home happening … do you follow?"

"I fail to see what's so special about this case," Sherlock grumbles.

"A news anchor, killed near Buckingham Palace, meddling into government affairs-"

"Meddling?" Sherlock snaps. "No one told me she was trying to break in."

"Evidence suggests that Caitlyn Connors was a spy, Sherlock. She was murdered in the process of leaving the premises, so obviously she was being spoken to - or shown something - by someone on duty. Or, rather, someone under my wing. What I'm trying to get at, Sherlock, is that someone in my inner circle is selling state secrets." Mycroft furrows a brow that seems to hold the weight of the world. "We're not sure what those secrets are, but one can presume them to be meaningful. The entirety of the nation could be at stake."

Sherlock rubs his hands together eagerly. "This is sounding a bit better, isn't it, John? I'll have to look into this immediately." He leaps up, but John remains in his chair, looking unenthused.

"Oh, and Sherlock? Whatever you and John are bickering about … it really must stop. You two are even more annoying when you're _not_ getting along."

And with that, Mycroft leaves the room.

* * *

><p>Sherlock's sifting through a stack of papers regarding esteemed individuals under Mycroft's command all afternoon. John watches, offering up ideas, but Sherlock barely hears him. John wonders if he's even helping with the case at all.<p>

"I said, what about this bloke, Will Herrington?" he says for the third time, a bit firmly. "Sherlock, you've completely overlooked him. He's been in cahoots with Caitlyn Connors's first cousin for over a year now - you don't think there's any connection?"

"Ah. It would seem logical," Sherlock finally relents.

"Sherlock. I've made a bloody connection that could very well help solve the case. That's the best you can give me?"

Sherlock shrugs.

"Oh, come on, don't be petulant. I've done nothing to you."

Sherlock's gaze turns cold. "You think you've done nothing, John?" His scowl is deep. "You lied to me. Perhaps you didn't realize it at the time, but it killed me, hearing you say that and knowing it wasn't true. So don't ever presume to say such a thing again - or to bring up the matter at all."

Sherlock turns back to the stack of papers as though nothing has occurred. John feels as though a shard of ice has been thrust into his heart, and wonders if this is how Sherlock felt when he uttered those fateful words. Those words of love.

At any rate, it's clear that he's fucked up beyond repair.

"John, John!" Sherlock shouts, about an hour later.

John, who's been dozing off, starts awake. "Yeah, what?"

"You were right - you were absolutely right! William Herrington sought company with Connors's cousin in order to get close to her, as can be determined by-" Sherlock's talking a mile a minute, and John can honestly say he doesn't remember half of what's being said. The important thing is that the case is solved, and that they have their man. Now it's only a matter of arresting him.

"We've got to phone Mycroft," Sherlock says. "He'll have all the data we need to make a firm case against Herrington. Furthermore, he'll have the man's location as fast as anything."

John grins. Things are going according to plan. Though perhaps they're going too well? The case seems far too easy. Surely there's more-

John doesn't have time to finish his thought, because soon enough, a heavy footstep sounds on the stairs. A tall man with broad shoulders and a meaty face whips a gun out of his pocket. John immediately recognizes him as the man from the file, Will Herrington. _Of all things to happen._ Before either Sherlock or John can act, two men appear from behind Herrington, even broader than he is.

"Blythe, Rogers - take down the security cameras," Herrington says. "And leave these two to me."

The men flanking Herrington storm to either sides of the room. _Of course, _John thinks._ They're under Mycroft's wing. Of _course_ they've got security footage on Baker Street._

"It's a bit cowardly, isn't it?" Sherlock sasses. "Threatening us when we're unarmed? The least you could do is give us a fair fight."

"Yeah, okay," Herrington says. "Fair fight it is." He takes his gun and pistol-whips John in the head. John's seeing stars, hitting the ground with a loud thud.

"_JOHN!_" Sherlock yells.

John loses consciousness, and doesn't remember anything for several minutes. As he's resurfacing, he hears unfamiliar voices, and realizes that at least a couple of the men are still in the room. John, thinking back to Afghanistan, plays at being knocked out. It might be the only way he'll get information … or stay alive.

"Leave him," Herrington says to another man - Blythe, or Rogers, or whoever - "he's useless. It's this arsehole detective we're here for."

"Where're we headed, boss?" Blythe asks.

Herrington lists off some coordinates under his breath. John quickly commits them to memory, lying as still as he can on the hardwood floor. He doesn't dare look, but knows that by the lack of snark in the room, Sherlock's probably out cold, too.

They're dragging away his best friend … his love. But he's got the upper hand, though they're none the wiser to it.

* * *

><p>Sherlock's head is still throbbing from the pistol-whip, but other than that, he's conscious again. It's hard to tell, though, because the room he's in is in complete darkness. <em>Ah, yes. The classic captivity narrative. That one's always fun.<em>

_John'll be here soon,_ he thinks … but he realizes, maybe not. He's taken John for granted so many times before, never truly appreciated his loyalty, but now? Now John's upset. John probably won't come.

He sits for an unimaginable period of time; it's too dark to do much of anything. He's not tied up, but he doesn't see anything, much less an exit. Will Herrington is proving to be a clever fellow.

Eventually he stands up, feeling at the walls. The room appears to be a solid cube, with no exits that he can touch. _How the hell …?_

Sherlock begins to pace, stumbling occasionally, not caring that he looks like a fool. He hates this waiting - all this time to _think_. Because right now, he doesn't want to do that. If he does, he'll think of John, he'll think of those words …

_I love you._

Sherlock knows he's been unfair. He should've taken John at his word - he is an honest man, after all. And the fact that he can depend on John to find him again … because surely he will …

But hours pass, with no sign of John. Hunger pangs kick in. Sherlock can't believe this. John always comes. Where is John? Strong, loyal John? His only love?

"John …" Sherlock chokes out, feeling a sob stick in his chest.

Just when he's sure he's about to lose hope, an opening appears in the ceiling, plaster and dust raining down everywhere. John's head pops out, shining a flashlight down into the pit.

"There you are, you bastard!" he shouts. "You bloody fool, sassing off to Herrington like that - I thought you were dead!"

"How long have you been looking?" Sherlock asks.

"Fifteen hours," John says. "It was harder to find than I'd thought. I mixed up some of the coordinates. But anyway, you'd better be grateful, you complete arse."

Lestrade's head appears in the opening. "Would you two stop fighting and make up already? Jesus."

Sherlock is helped up out of the hole, collapsing on the ground that was once above him in a messy heap.

John reaches out and wipes a bit of soot off Sherlock's nose. "God, I was worried. As worried as always. I don't know why I always feel this way - it's not like you haven't been kidnapped before." He pauses. "But you knew I'd come for you, right?"

It suddenly hits Sherlock like a ton of bricks - _John loves him._ Who else would do this for anyone? Risk their life, time and time again - for _him_, of all people? And to think he'd taken such loyalty for granted! But as though something has finally clicked, Sherlock realizes: _John loves him, John loves him, John loves him._

"I love you," Sherlock gasps, taking John's hands and squeezing, hard. "And I'm sorry for being an arse as of late."

"Yeah, yeah, you're forgiven," John says, kissing him full on the mouth. "You know I love you too, right?"

"_Yes_. Of course."

"I mean it. You must know - I was never fully sure of Mary. Over time, she became nothing to me. She really wasn't much to begin with. I think I was just attached to the idea of having someone who loved me. But you - _you_, Sherlock … oh my God. I've never grown sick of you, and I never will. My best friend, my love, my-"

Before John can continue this ode, Sherlock's kissing him again. His mouth has gained more experience over the short period of time, his lips matching up perfectly with John's own. It's everything he could have ever wanted.

"Eugh, Christ!" Lestrade groans, cuffing John on the head good-naturedly - and Sherlock, too, before he can do anything about it. "As they say in every rom-com ever, get a room!"

"Baker Street?" Sherlock says, high on his recent realization. John loves him. John _loves_ him. John loves _him_.

_Holy_ shit.

"Oh, God, yes," John purrs, a wicked gleam in his eyes.


	6. The Gratification

Sherlock's giddy, high on life, on top of the world - hell, he's every damn cliche in the book, and more. The words _John loves me_ repeat again and again in his head, like some sort of wonderful mantra. His heart pounds in his chest. He literally cannot contain himself for all his excitement.

"In case you need more proof of my affections," John murmurs, once they've reached his bedroom, "I am going to give you the best sex of your life, no questions asked."

"Such confidence," Sherlock says, his baritone a rumbling purr.

They fall into bed together. Sherlock works John's jumper over his head, then his trousers, and at last, his tiny red pants. John works Sherlock's clothing off as well, though he can barely disguise his trembling fingers. Because, let's face it, all he wants to do right now is ravish this lovely man. He wants no doubts in Sherlock's mind that what they have is real.

"You saved my life today," Sherlock says while lubing up.

"And I'd do it again and again," John reassures. "I'd go to the ends of the earth for you, you bloody wanker."

Sherlock snickers under his breath. "John," he says, his voice going throaty.

"Ye-es?"

"I want you. Inside me. Now."

John's already got a hard-on, but now he's solid as a rock. Sherlock wants to be taken. Oh God. Oh my God.

Sherlock turns over so that his arse is high in the air, glancing back at John. He bites his lip cherubically. "Go on, then," he says, once John's properly lubed. Sherlock hums eagerly under his breath, arching his back, preparing himself. He hasn't done anal in years, and certainly not with John. For this reason he's on the edge of delirium … or insanity … or perhaps both.

John takes hold of Sherlock's hips to hold him steady, helping him to stretch out his anal cavity. Sherlock whimpers a bit but the agony is soon over. Before long, John is pressing inward. Slowly but surely he's inside, and Sherlock is groaning with pleasure. John begins to thrust, each one harder than the last. Sherlock throws his head back, glossy curls askew.

"John! Oh-_fuck!_ Fuck, that's good," he cries. John continues to thrust for a few minutes, touching his lips to Sherlock's neck and sucking eagerly. Sherlock's pupils dilate with arousal, his vision blurring as the thrusts grow faster, more urgent. Fuck, he's so crazy in love right now-

"Aaaagghh …. oh, _God_, yes," Sherlock pants, as John pounds into him. His arms are getting shaky with holding up his weight, so he lowers himself closer to the mattress. John's high enough above him to get in a few more solid thrusts before Sherlock can't take it anymore.

"Shit-Jesus fuck, I'm going to ... I'm-" Sherlock gasps out.

"Jesus," John groans, feeling himself go tense. He's almost ready to come himself - just one final thrust - no, he'll push it; two more …

"_JOHN!_" Sherlock screams, head thrown back as John comes inside him. He feels as though there's been an electric charge going through his veins, shocking his every limb into submission. He comes as well, collapsing onto the mattress as John pulls out, falling into bed beside him.

"J-Jawn," Sherlock mews, like a child.

John struggles to get ahold of his gasping breaths. "Holy shit," he says, again and again. "God, I love you, Sherlock. I love you so much. I loved you so much, even before all this. Goddamn … you're bloody brilliant. Brilliant and beautiful."

"Shh," Sherlock says, muffling a laugh. "Just relax."

They reach out for each other, chests heaving with the last of their exertion. Sherlock rolls over and runs his fingers through John's crew cut, smiling adoringly upon his love.

"I suppose I should say I love you, too," he amends. "Because I do. Really. But I'm sure you know that already."

"Of course, Sherlock," John says, warm and glowing. "Of course."

John and Sherlock don't quite fall asleep - it's more something of a delirious reverie - but they're both able to think straight enough to know that they wouldn't ask for anything any other way. To mention Mary Morstan in these moments would be a shame, but one can reassure oneself with the knowledge that John never thinks of her, not anymore. She had been next to nothing, and is certainly just that in comparison to Sherlock.

… No, that isn't quite right. The fact of the matter is that _nobody_ compares to Sherlock. John's fully aware how lucky he is to have a gorgeous, loving, brilliant best friend and love. And Sherlock, of course, feels the same for John. Neither of them, for all their imagination, could have thought of a happier ending.


End file.
